


The Land of Blood and Childhood Trauma

by sburbanite



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Meteorstuck, Minor Injuries, Pale Porn, Pale-Red Vacillation, Red Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When two dreambubbles collide, two anti-social assholes are forced to help each other through it.</p><p>*Alternate title: The Land of Healing and Emotional Closure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an experiment in writing third-person, but turned into an exploration of what "pity" does to trolls.  
> *DISCLAIMER* (2016)   
> This is written in a weird format that I never used again and gets confusing really fast. Sorry about that, but I'm probably not going to spend time re-writing it so it's stuck as it is for now. I don't think it holds up at all but by all means try and get through it.

Waking up surrounded by mutant candy-red is always a kick to the shame-globes, but this time things are even redder than usual. Karkat rubs the grit from his eyes, sweat beading on his forehead as he takes in his surroundings. Brilliant. Just fantastic. The dream-bubble is a mutant hybrid of his hideous, mocking planet, and Dave’s idiotic land of lava and annoying ticking shit. He groans, lifting himself from the pile of smuppets that has become a pile of sharp rocks as the bubble bisected the meteor. Everything on his planet that isn’t disgustingly crimson is dagger-fucking-sharp, yet another dig at his disaster of a personality. The makeup of Dave’s planet is annoyingly non-judgemental by comparison. His aspect is time, he grew up somewhere hot; ergo gears and molten rock. Big goddamn whoop. 

The merging of the two lands means that the prick is bound to be around here somewhere, probably rapping like a tool with one of his stupid snap-beast consorts. Almost a sweep on board the meteor has been long enough to get well and truly sick of Strider’s “cool” shtick, and an indeterminate amount of time spent trapped in this place listening to him rambling ad-nauseum is Karkat’s idea of a true daymare. Dave alternates between stubborn, stoic silence and manic, filterless babbling more erratically than his bipolar friend, the one who never really settled comfortably between his pale and red quadrants. The one who fucked him over royally when he decided to ditch him for no reason whatsoever. 

For so many reasons, the timing of this bubble car-crash is terrible. And although it’s bad for Karkat, the shameful reflection of his blood-colour making his food-absorber clench painfully, it’s infinitely worse for Dave. His old apartment is filled with smuppets and swords and the lingering, creeping terror that his Bro is going to silently appear with his katana raised. More horrifying is the knowledge that Bro’s never going to jump out on anyone again. Waking amidst the debris of his former life is enough to make his heart hammer furiously, and suddenly Dave is claustrophobic, panicking. Without thinking, he dashes to the roof, a blur of red pajamas and barely suppressed tears. A wall of heat hits him, but he’s used to it by now. What he isn’t expecting are the turrets of a gothic-looking castle merging with the gears and girders. The place isn’t anywhere familiar, but there’s a structure he’d recognise anywhere floating on the red liquid below him. 

Karkat grumbles to himself, scuffing his bare claws along the obsidian floor of a jagged-yet-pointless battlement and sweating through his shirt. This place is an almighty cluster-fuck, the sheer, pulsing red of it boring painfully into his think-pan. He flops down in the shade of a turret, staring morosely at the curtains of steam rising from the places where lava meets blood. Even the steam is red. At this rate, he's going to boil in his own skin, the way he's been told that the humans like to cook small creatures that resemble his lusus. Apparently the cooking process turns them a painfully predictable colour. 

Dave takes to the air, the Beat Mesa rushing toward him as he dives. His brother's sword is embedded in the smooth surface, and he wonders idly if pulling it out grants the bearer the throne of the Kingdom of Sick Rhymes. Or something like that. He'll think of something better when his vision isn't wavering through a film of unwanted moisture. Sitting cross-legged by the sword, he casually runs a finger down the razor-sharp edge. It cuts him, of course, but it's almost a relief to think about that instead of Bro. He always did cope better with physical than emotional pain. 

Dave's reverie is shattered by the sound of familiar yelling. The source is clinging to a crenellation about thirty feet above him, Karkat's yells becoming screechy with frustration as he sees Dave looking up at him. It's impossible to make out individual words, but the overall impression is that he's going to keep turning up the rage-dial until he hits 11 if Dave doesn't relent to getting his ass up there. He looks at the spar of glassy rock that Karkat's castle-piece is perched on, and sees it isn't connected to any others. The little pip-shriek is trapped. 

Even for a troll, Karkat never had much cool to begin with, and the temperature of this place has melted what little there was clean away. His voice is getting hoarse, but he's nowhere near the limit of his yelling stamina. 

"STRIDER, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT YOUR MISERABLE SPECIES HOLDS DEAR, GET YOUR LAZY HIPSTER CARCASS UP HERE! I DIDN'T SURVIVE THE SGRUB SESSION EQUIVALENT OF BEING REPEATEDLY FUCKED BY AN ANGRY HORNBEAST SO I COULD FRY TO DEATH IN THE IMGINATION OF AN ALIEN BULGESUCKER!" 

Dave takes the hint, although he isn't sure five minutes of constant screaming really counts as a hint any more. He composes himself before blasting off to hover in front of Karkat, conveniently out of punching range. Dave still has bruises from attempting to tickle him. 

Dave tilts his head slightly, and greets Karkat in his customary manner. 

"Sup, dude. Did I hear you yelling about bulges again?" 

Karkat growls his response through clenched fangs.

"Fuck you, you insufferable tool. I never fucking mentioned anything about bulges. Now get me off this goddamn rock before I start to cook on it." 

Dave notices that Karkat is dancing from foot to foot, a perfect impression of a toddler who needs to go to the bathroom. He smirks a little before realizing that the jet-black rock has probably absorbed a metric shitload of heat from the lava surrounding it. Karkat might actually be in danger, and the thought tugs at Dave in ways that make him uncomfortable. It looks like Karkat's going to have to submit to bring touched for once. 

"Fine, man. But I'm going to have to pick you up, so no flailing those talons of yours around." 

Karkat's face contorts into a scowl as he nods, waves of embarrassment so thick that Dave could probably cut them with his stupid sword rolling off him. He relents to being carried like a wiggler, a low grumble in the back of his throat serving as a warning to any douchebags who might be tempted to take advantage of the situation. In truth, he's relieved to get his blistered feet off the hellish surface of the rock, and more concerned about the fact that all of the moisture in his body has decided to fuck off to warmer climes than whose arms are hooked under his legs and back. As if Karkat's life hasn't been dangerous enough already, now he has to worry about waking up from his rare periods of sleep to an environment that might kill him. _Truly_ , he thinks to himself, _I wasn't meant to survive any of this. The universe can't wait to finish me off._

Dave stifles the urge to make a newlyweds joke as he carries Karkat over the threshold of his apartment; he can feel Karkat's sweat soaking through his clothes and he seems to be hovering on the edge of consciousness. Laying him on living-room futon, Dave examines the damage to Karkat's feet, which are an angry, swollen red. Blisters are forming, and he wonders what the fuck he's supposed to do for burns to alien skin. Karkat groans, rolling onto his side, and unceremoniously throws up onto Dave's floor. 

"Shit, man! Let me get you a goddamn bucket or something!" 

Karkat looks daggers at him, even through his heat-stroke, and Dave mentally kicks himself. Trolls only use buckets for sex, apparently, which is so fucking weird he can't even begin to contemplate how it might work. Not to mention how they clean their floors. 

"You OK? You gonna do any more technicolor yawning?" 

Dave stands awkwardly a few feet from Karkat, and even that degree of closeness puts him way, way out of his depth. He missed "Introduction to Caring for the Infirm", thanks to Bro. He was an honors student in "Junior First Aid", though, and the push-and-pull tension of not wanting to deal with Karkat but knowing that he needs medical attention is maddening. 

Karkat doesn't answer, he has no idea whether he's going to vomit again, start bleeding from all orifices, or keel over and expire. He's never felt like this before. Strider thrusts a glass of water into his face, and springs back like he's been bitten when Karkat grabs it and gulps it down frantically. His body wants water, as much water as it can possibly contain. 

"More," he rasps, snarling angrily when Dave shakes his head and lowers himself onto a clean section of floor. 

"Nah, dude. You gotta let that lot go down first. You have any more and you'll hork it all up again." 

Karkat shoots him a "how the fuck would you know" expression, clearly skeptical of Dave's sudden medical expertise. He makes an effort to calm down when Dave starts to grab fistfuls of his blonde hair, a gesture of deep discomfort. 

"You've got heat-stroke, Karkat. I've been there, I know how it goes." 

Dave neglects to mention that he knows it from being locked on the roof more times than he can remember, told to ration his water and build a shelter to prepare him for fuck-knows-what. Ten-year-olds suck ass at both rationing and shelter-construction. 

The silence builds uncomfortably, until Karkat can't take it any more. Sickness is still washing over him, joined by its loyal companion, pan-searing agony. His head feels like it's being slowly crushed to the point of collapse. Anything will do to distract him. 

"This your hive?" he asks, already knowing the answer. It wouldn't be here in the land of pain and assholes if it wasn’t. 

Dave nods, and gets up to retrieve another glass of water from the kitchen, flicking on the air-conditioning as he does so. This time, Karkat sips it slowly. When Dave returns from clattering in the kitchen brandishing the biggest sword he's ever seen, he spit-takes with such force that coughs wrack his body and most of the remaining water kisses goodbye to the glass. 

"Dude, chill," Dave murmurs soothingly, his smirk at Karkat's reaction making the him wish he had the strength to wipe it off Dave's face with a handful of claws. His rage simmers down when Dave unexpectedly presses the flat of the blade to his searing feet. It's cool. Not just cool, actually cold. The heat bleeding out of his soles is a merciful agony, he feels like they're on fire again, but this time the icy burning feels ecstatic. 

Dave grins at the Karkat's sudden relaxation, a genuine smile He's never seen before. But then again, Dave's never seen Karkat like this before, either. He's weak and pitiful in his injured state, so much so that another troll would assume he was making a pass at them. Most likely a pale overture, which isn't too sickening, but a lot of trolls find this kind of docterrorist-patient vulnerability the ultimate turn-on. Karkat realizes that if Dave were a troll, he'd basically presenting himself with a ribbon tied around his nethers. That thought needs to go fuck itself, Karkat doesn't need any more reasons to feel like a piece of shit today, so he promptly squashes it and asks what Dave is so goddamn happy about. 

"Nothin' man, it's just funny. I finally found a use for all the swords in the fridge." 

To say Karkat is in no mood for confusing human bullshit would be the understatement of the sweep. 

"Why? Just why the hell would your thermal hull be filled with weaponry?" 

Dave's smile disappears, replaced by his trademark stoic blankness. Explaining the details of his rad-as-fuck but also kind of lonely and terrifying and painful childhood is not on the menu for Dave and Karkat bonding time. This new closeness to their bro-ship is purely a convenience, a way to keep Karkat alive. All they need to do is sit tight and not talk about personal shit until this bubble passes through and they can go back to alternating between hangning out and ignoring each other. Except for when Dave is bored, if course, in which case Karkat can't get rid of him for more than five minutes. 

Surveying Dave's hive, Karkat takes in the bizarre puppets, the weaponry casually tossed into the corners of the room, and the explosives lying on the countertop. Even to an Alternian, it doesn't scream "happy wigglerhood". Karkat nearly loses his shit in the most literal way when his gaze meets the staring eyes of the most disturbing object he's ever laid his ganderbulbs on. 

"HOLY JEGUSFUCKING CHRIST, STRIDER, WHAT IS THAT THING!?" 

Dave glances in the direction of Karkat's shaking finger. 

"Oh, that's just Lil' Cal. He's the best." 

Dave sounds about as convinced as Karkat is by that. In fact, the second part of his statement is delivered in tones that would usually accompany "He haunts my nightmares."As far as Dave is concerned, that is literally the case. He used to love Cal. Or his Bro did. Thinking about it, he can't honestly recall any feelings toward the doll except that it's creepy as shit. 

Karkat's feet have heated the sword past the point of uselessness, and he draws his legs up until he's curled tightly into a ball. Dave notices he's shivering in the cool breeze from the air conditioner, his sweat-soaked clothes clinging to him. 

"Not to sound like a perv, dude, but we need to get you out of those wet clothes. You're gonna catch troll flu or whatever." 

Said troll's expression could curdle milk. 

"Great idea, Strider. Put me in one of your idiotic dream ensembles. And when the bubble evaporates, I get the joy of wandering around naked until I find my block. Unless you're going to volunteer that rag around your neck, I'll fucking pass." 

Dave snorts at the idea of Karkat's clothing turning to mist, leaving an incandescent bundle of nudity and shame in its place. He's aware that troll junk is in the same general location as on humans, and he wonders how difficult it would be for Karkat to throw a shit-fit without gesticulating wildly with both hands. There has to be a point at which he'd rather flip you off than preserve his modesty, and Dave feels a little twinge of disappointment at not getting to play that game. He tries not to think about where exactly he feels it. At least then he'd be on an even footing with Rose, because he'd rather eat his own shades than ask her or Kanaya for an anatomy lesson. 

Karkat is looking at him strangely, one eyebrow raised, and he realizes it probably looks like he just zoned the fuck out at the idea of an eyeful of naked troll. 

"Don't give me that look, Vantas. I was only indulging in some purely scientific speculation. The Stri-londes are humanity’s alien liaison team, dude, we gotta gather data so we know where to stick the probes." 

Shit, that sounded way more suggestive than intended. 

Karkat huffs with amusement and Dave can tell he's stifling a big, shit-eating grin. Picking himself up off the floor, Dave heads into the bathroom and fills a basin with water. He should have thought of this earlier, but leaving a hurling, semi-conscious Karkat alone had seemed like a bad idea. On his way back to the lounge, he also grabs the blanket from his bed. He sure as hell isn't about melt in the simulated Texan heat so that Karkat doesn’t catch a mild chill. 

Dave moves strangely in his own home. Karkat watches him stalking from room to room, shoulders hunched in a defensive stance that he recognizes all too well. He walks the way Karkat remembers walking on his brief trips outside his hive, desperate to avoid the attention of other trolls and their lusii. Dave looks as though he wants to disappear. Returning to the couch, Dave dumps a snuggle-plane onto him before grabbing one of Karkat's feet in a freakishly soft hand. Instinctively, Karkat kicks him hard in the face, and both of them swear in unison. 

Dave’s nose hurts like a bitch, and he’s on the verge of smacking one of the offending feet very hard before he remembers how leery Karkat is of physical contact. He’s never seen anyone touch the little guy without a flinch or twitch; or in Dave’s case, a punch. Sighing, he dunks both clawed feet into the basin. Karkat screeches, shivers, and then relaxes. A very un-trollish whimper escapes his lips, but it’s obvious he has zero fucks to give. He might as well be a piece of noodle until Dave bursts out laughing and he tenses up completely. 

“Karkat, cool it. You just went to your calm place, man, I’m proud of you. I was beginning to think you didn’t have one, but you just died and went to chillhalla. Say hi to all the chicks with horned helmets, although you guys have horns anyway so fuck knows how that works. Did you have troll Vikings or is that just a human thing?” 

The verbal diarrhoea is hardly soothing, but the cool water on his burned feet is the best feeling Karkat has experienced in his entire miserable life, so fuck Dave right now. He can muster two middle fingers, but that’s about it. Dave has spent enough hours bugging him to give away the signs that a juggernaut of godawful slam-poetry is approaching (Dave has a particular kind of blank face when he’s retreated into his mind), so Karkat decides to do something, anything, to head it off. 

“Why is this place so fucking hot, Strider? It cannot possibly have been like this on your shitheap of a home planet.” 

Dave scratches his neck, recalling rounds of strife under blowtorch sunlight. Blood, pain, and humiliation on the concrete beneath him. 

“Yeah, it was like this. Hot as all fuck, and I had the luck to be born with the most burnable lily-white skin in existence. Or ecto-created, or whatever. It’s a wonder my gorgeous face didn’t look like your feet do right now twenty-four-seven.” 

He winces at his own words; Karkat is probably unaware of the amount of candy-red mixing with the water in the basin, nor of the blistered mass of flesh that used to be his soles. This dreambubble fucked the guy over royally, so why does Dave still feel like he got the shitty end of the stick? Oh yeah, that’s right. Cal’s staring right the fuck at him. 

Karkat might be in pain, but he’s still as sharp as his own razor-claws. There’s no way in hell he wasn’t going to notice Dave flinching. 

“How bad is it? Circle “Fucked” or “Extra fucked with a side order of boned for good measure.” 

Dave hisses, a strange intake of air through his useless, blunt teeth. Gently, he lifts one foot out of the water to assess the damage. Karkat silently curses the flush creeping across his cheeks, this is getting scandalously intimate. And, more worryingly, he doesn’t really mind. The thought of his admittedly terrible moirail in full “jealous murderampage” mode effectively kills any idle daydreaming dead, however. This place is red enough already without adding Strider’s repulsive blood into the mix. 

“It’s pretty bad, dude. I think your walking privileges are revoked for a while. You want me to bandage em’ up? I got some aloe shit somewhere that’s good for burns.” 

That sends a little thrill down Karkat’s posture-pole, the thought of Dave gently winding soft fabric around his burned feet in the ultimate pity-gesture. He’s fairly sure that Dave has no idea how incredibly suggestive he’s acting, but the vibe of “I’m not going to kill you even though you’re so vulnerable I could rip you to pieces without even trying” is doing funny things to Karkat. Things he’d rather weren’t happening right now. 

“Sure,” He croaks, struggling to keep his voice neutral. He meant to say no, honestly, possibly hell-fucking-no, but apparently his pan has abandoned him to being touched pityingly by Dave Strider of all people. He swallows, trying to slow his thumping blood-pusher. What the fuck could possibly go horribly, catastrophically wrong?


	2. Chapter 2

Fuck. This is too much, too intimate. Karkat's blood-pusher starts pounding as Dave towels the bloody water off his feet; the combination of ever-so-gentle patting and the agonized look in the human's eyes is pure unadulterated pity. Goddamn it, this needs to stop, he needs to start baring fangs or lashing out with his claws, anything to show Dave he's a threat and not some defenceless pity-object. 

This is the first time anyone has ever looked at him like that, though; without giving off an omnipresent aura of "I could still take you down". Several of his troll friends had been damn close to sliding into his flushed quadrant, but there had always been a reason for that sliver of extra distance. Terezi was too deadly to fully pity, too lovely to fully hate. Sollux, well, he'd been pitiful enough, but by the time he'd found out about Karkat's shameful blood he'd been horns over heels for Feferi. And besides, he'd always acted more pale than red toward Karkat.

Dave surveys the damage to the troll's feet, relieved that he hasn't had any more kicks to the money-maker. Far from the grumbling ball of pain and rage Dave expected, Karkat has gone strangely quiet. Passive, even. 

"You OK, man?" He asks cautiously, hoping that the little idiot hasn't suffered brain damage from the heat. Trolls are nocturnal, he recalls, and Karkat seems to have overheated remarkably quickly. Alternia must have been significantly cooler than Earth.

"Yes, fuckface," comes the reply. "Not everyone babbles incessantly as a coping mechanism, you know. Some of us like to grit our fangs and think about other shit besides all of our skin peeling off."

Welp, definitely no brain-damage. Sarcasm integrity at 96% and holding. The relief of knowing the injury is purely physical goes some way to assuaging Dave's guilt, but he still feels like he's swallowed a giant stone. His stupid lava planet did this. He's the reason Karkat is going to need to alchemize a wheelchair to use for the next few weeks. He's probably also going to be the one to push him around in it, but that hardly makes up for third degree burns. He also knows from experience how lumpy and uncomfortable that futon is, and how much he really, really wants to get the fuck away from Cal. Sometimes it's hard being Dave Strider. 

Karkat's beleaguered vascular system takes another beating when Dave decides to hoist him up and carry him to his bedroom, and fuck if he doesn't put him down on the bed so gently it makes his food-absorber do flips. He hasn't even started playing mediculler and things are already getting uncomfortable. He wonders how pissed the human will be when he realizes just how much Karkat is being affected by all this pity, especially as he knows Dave isn't trying to be romantic. 

Still, the fantasy of being injured, revealing his blood colour to exactly the right troll, and being pitied so hard he can't sit down for nights has been a guilty pleasure for sweeps. A dangerous, stupid yearning for someone to really know him and care about him and all the rest of the shit he's read about a thousand times over. 

But fuck...it's *Strider* for fuck's sake. Dave's going to think he's the creepiest creep and he's never going to bug him with his stupid raps or dumb jokes again. Or seek him out exactly when he wants to be alone and mope himself into a coma, just to fucking argue about some stupid way in which Human culture is supposedly superior to Alternian culture. The stupid dance of genuine hatred and equally genuine friendship will be over. He can't, there's no way he can mention anything. He'll just ignore the fuck out of it and hope it doesn't get any worse.

Dave makes a circuit of the room, completing his usual checks to make sure the windows are locked, the closet is Bro-less, there's no sword-wielding asshole hiding under the desk. He knows it's pointless. He doesn't care. It was his routine for the better part of five years, and he can't feel safe until it's done. When the room is clear, his shoulders relax, and he starts fishing around in the closet. 

The checking routine doesn't go unnoticed, and once again Karkat is concerned by the fact that Dave obviously doesn't feel safe in his own hive. He wonders of it's just because this is a stupid mutant hybrid daymare bubble, but the automatic, methodical way he pokes into every cranny suggests sweeps of habit. 

"Fuck yeah!!" Dave exclaims, straightening up and facing the stricken troll with a large first-aid kit in one hand. The other holds his prize, the thing he's searched for for over a year: an unopened bottle of apple juice. He's so goddamn happy, he capchalogues it, pulls out the card, photographs it, capchalogues the card, takes a photo of the card containing the card containing the apple juice, and then finally stows it all away. His satisfied grin lifts the atmosphere in the room.

"Let's see that fucker disappear on me now!" he exclaims, flopping onto the bed.

Karkat snickers, Dave is behaving like a wiggler on Twelfth Perigree's Eve. Grinning, he asks what the fuck apple juice was doing in Dave's garment-vestibule.

Strider's face freezes, the grin turning waxen-false under Karkat's gaze. 

"Oh, you know. I'm the freshly squeezed Prince of AJ, dude. It can't stand to be apart from me."

The response is weak, even for Dave, who pulls himself up and starts rummaging in the first-aid-kit, his excitement well and truly punctured. Karkat mentally kicks himself (won't be able to physically do that for a while, he muses), and tells himself in no uncertain terms that he is not going to start feeling pity for Dave fucking Strider, prick extraordinaire. Even if he is blatantly very unhappy here. Even if he just so happens to have the biggest first-aid-kit Karkat's ever seen stashed in his respite-block clothing cubby.

Dave doesn't look at Karkat, concentrating on finding the burn ointment. He has no clue if it'll help, if it'll do nothing, if it's fucking poisonous for trolls. True, they can eat the same food, and none of them have caught anything from each other, although god-tier magic seems to act like scotchguard for germs. Karkat isn't an immortal, though. He won't just revive if Dave accidentally kills him. The guilt is too much, and even Striders have a breaking point (he tries to banish the memory of what finally broke his Bro).

He fiddles with the tube of goop, the roll of bandages, the safety-pins and antiseptic wipes. He hasn't looked at his companion in over five minutes. Karkat frowns when Dave takes a huge gulping breath and launches the S.S. Striderbabble.

"Dude. I'm so fucking sorry about my asshole of a planet, it's my fucking fault you got hurt. The stupid place takes after me, and I'm not...I'm an asshole too, I guess. I have no clue if any of this stuff is gonna hurt you worse, or like make your feet swell up like balloons, or anythin'. Just...I gotta do something or you're gonna be in agony when all this shit dries out."

Already, the soles of Karkat's feet have started to crack a little, weeping a pinkish fluid onto the bedclothes. The troll nods, the pain in his frond nubs starting to eclipse the feelings generated by the almighty fountain of pity gushing from Dave. The guy feels so sorry for Karkat, but Karkat's starting to feel pretty sorry for himself, too.

"Just slap all that shit on, I don't give a fuck so long as it calms this pain down. My think-pan is too preoccupied with it to come up with anything creative to describe how much this hurts, which should tell you how much this fucking hurts."

Dave nods, uncapping the ointment. The antiseptic stings like a bitch and the troll has razor feet with a temper to match, so oh hell no, those are going back in the bag. Dream germs can't give you infections anyway (Dave hopes). Instead, he takes a handful of cream and applies a thick layer. Karkat hisses as the stuff touches his feet, but doesn't say anything else.

The human healing ointment doesn't feel as good as dipping his frond nubs into sopor, but it'll do. It tingles a little, and he hopes that means it's working. Dave's face is back to stoic mask mode, and Karkat has no idea if that's good, or really really bad.

"Dave." Strider's head pops up in surprise, Karkat rarely calls him Dave. "Thank you. The goo stuff doesn't feel like it's going to melt my skin or anything, it actually feels marginally less bad. And shut the fuck up about this being your fault, you didn't design this nookstain of a planet, and you sure as hell didn't mash it together with my bullshit land of shame and embarassment."

Dave looks a little brighter as he starts wrapping bandages around Karkat's feet, and the troll feels a twinge in his chest. The guy's self esteem obviously hangs by a thread, more so in this place than on the meteor. Fuck. Stop it, stop pitying him right this second. This isn't helping.

Dave sets about playing nurse, pinning the bandages in place when he's done and idly wondering how Karkat would react to him dressing in the stereotypical sexy nurse outfit. For true ironic excellence, of course. Probably confusion, maybe a few laughs. No doubt the connotations would fly right over his nubby little head. Shit, he thinks, his stomach clenching with nausea. Knowing his Bro, there probably is a sexy nurse outfit in the apartment somewhere. 

Fuck fuck fuck, and an extra helping of FUCK. Strider is touching him, gently, so gently, and the act of taking care of him and the sheer "I want you to feel better" of it all is almost too much. Based on Dave's ramblings, he probably *needs* Karkat to feel better. And damn if that isn't a turn on in the least appropriate way. Involuntarily, Karkat lets out a sound that no-one was meant to hear. Dave's eyes on him (even behind the sunglasses, he can tell) make it plainly obvious that he did hear. What's more, he looks fucking amused.

"Dude, are you purring?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feet are super gross, especially burned feet. How have I ended up writing so many words about gross burned feet.


	3. Chapter 3

“WHAT?”

Karkat’s strangled cry sends Dave into silent hysterics, his deadpan expression buckling under the pressure. He snorts, finally letting it go as the little troll’s face turns scarlet.

“FUCK YOU! I’M NOT A FUCKING MEOWBEAST, STRIDER!”

“Dude.” Dave collapses onto the bed, struggling to breathe. “Stop. You’re gonna kill me.”

He isn’t prepared when Karkat smacks him in the head with a pillow. Under normal circumstances, being smacked unexpectedly with something soft wouldn’t be a problem. Dave is totally down with ironic pillow-fights, particularly with a troll who gets needlessly worked up when he gets hit in the face. They’ve both lost count of the number of pillows, cushions and duvets that have valiantly fallen to the flailing claws of a startled Karkat. Here, though, the colour and life drains from Dave’s face when Karkat clouts him with the sack of feathers.

This place is too much for him. His land has always been noisy, mechanisms constantly clicking and ticking in the back of his mind. But those were rhythms, beats. Steady as his heartbeat and just as comforting. This mess of a place is different, the glassy rock of Karkat’s planet cracks and splinters in the heat, pieces splashing into blood and thudding into lava. Without his friend’s injuries as a distraction, each noise sets his teeth on edge. His Brother’s ghost envelops him; he's in the sword embedded in the boiling rock, in the dark corners of his room, in the string of the crawlspace hatch swaying gently in the breeze of the central air. He’s afraid of how afraid he is.

Dave has frozen completely, his only movement a slight quiver running through his forearms. Karkat watches him carefully; the person next to him is suddenly a stranger. He’s definitely never met this bundle of nerves and terror before.

“Dave?” He almost whispers the name, reaching out gently toward the other boy. His only experience of calming anyone has been stilling homicidal rage, he isn’t equipped to handle panic.

“Dave, shit, it’s fine, everything’s fine. What’s wrong?”

Dave shakes his head, drawing his knees up into a ball. Karkat understands; whatever it is, Dave can’t talk about it. Wordlessly, he slips his arms around him, ignoring the shudder that runs through Dave. He’s gasping for air, sobbing noiselessly into his knees, the release of emotion obviously overwhelming him. Karkat holds him, humming softly. The tune is one his lusus used to croon and click when he was scared during a storm. He refrains from shooshing, though the temptation is strong. There’s always a chance that Gamzee is hiding somewhere, and the last thing Strider needs right now is a lunatic jumping out at him.

If Karkat didn’t feel pity for Dave before, he sure as fuck does now that he’s quivering in his arms. Eventually, his breathing starts to slow, and Dave stops doing an impression of a fish out of water.

“Dave, you don’t have to talk about whatever shit happened here. It’s pretty fucking obvious from the way you’ve been on edge since we got here that your wigglerhood was an almighty traumatic clusterfuck, so I’ve got your invite to join the goddamn club right here. Personally, I spent the entire thing living in fear of being culled for my mutation, but at least my lusus didn’t make me murder other trolls or their lusii.”

Dave sniffs, his breathing almost normal. Misery loves company, and Karkat’s assurances are helping, making him feel like less of a fuckup. His other friends had problems growing up, but nothing on the scale of what he had to deal with. Or what Karkat had to deal with, apparently. It’s hard to complain about your bruises and dislocated shoulder to someone whose biggest problem is an excess of cake. The troll senses Dave’s panic fading, and keeps on rambling with his grating voice turned down to a soothing volume.

"Terezi basically raised herself, since her guardian was some kind of doomsday egg, and Sollux had to feed his poisonous drug-honey or the thing went on a psiionic rampage. Vriska and Feferi basically had to mass-murder their way through hundreds of innocent kids to keep their lusii fed, and stupid spineless Eridan got roped in to help. Gamzee never fucking saw his, and the stupid thing never even taught him not to eat his goddamn sopor. And now most of us are dead, along with both of our species, and it’s all my fucking fault. We’re all fucked up, Dave.”

Karkat sighs, long and deep, and Dave’s heart twinges in sympathy. At least all of his friends are still alive, even if they’re on the other side of the Universe.

“It wasn’t your fault, Karkat. I’ve talked about all that shit with Kanaya, and you didn’t do squat wrong. What the hell were you supposed to do about the fact your friends can’t keep their murderous impulses in their fucking pants? How the fuck you didn’t end the game looking like a rainbow threw up on you, I’ll never know.”

Karkat snorts, the morbid imagery of that thought touching a sick spot inside of him. Dave gently shrugs his way out of the hug, but doesn’t shuffle away.

“So, now we’ve had an earnest rap session about feelings, do we gotta get troll married or something?”

That draws a predictable grumble from the troll.

“Yes Dave, you’re now contractually obliged to ride my bulge all day long. We’re eternally bound together by the holy ties of having had a fucking chat about disturbing shit on one singular occasion.”

Both of them relax, the tension that filled the bubble to the brim draining away. Karkat tentatively asks if Dave is OK, and resists the urge to squeeze his hand tightly. Dave had felt warm and good when he held him, and he hasn’t a hope of squashing the pity filling his chest. The kid is so deliciously messed-up. He can’t tell if the feelings are red or pale, but he knows they’re real. He also knows he has to keep them to himself. Dave’s vulnerable as shit right now, he doesn’t need a confused troll hitting on him in ways he won’t even understand.

Dave lays back on his bed, stretching out and letting the tightness in his muscles fade. Karkat’s the only person who’s ever been in his room, besides him and Bro. Having him here is a reminder that this isn’t Houston, he’s not in Texas anymore. It didn’t take a tornado to wrench him from his old life, and he sure as fuck isn’t going to click his heels together and wish to go home. No-one has ever comforted him like that, even when he was small. His bro held him, sure. But never hummed and rocked and _cared_.

They’re still stuck here, and it occurs to Dave that there’s a lot of cool shit in here that he hasn’t seen in years. For some reason, he wants to show it to Karkat, to share a piece of his life he actually feels proud of. Grabbing his favourite things, he dumps them in a pile next to an amused Karkat. Dave realizes he’s acting like a little kid who’s finally been allowed to have a friend over, but his collection of fucks to give has been mysteriously depleted.

“I used to collect dead stuff, and take photographs.”

Dave hands a few things to Karkat, who gives them a polite once-over. This seems to be some sort of human ritual, so he indulges Strider with interested noises. Some of the photographs are quite good; especially the ones of black squawkfowl, but most of them are self-portraits of a shades-clad douche. The little show-and-tell session doesn’t take long, and Karkat is relieved when Dave pulls a laptop out of his sylladex.

“Wanna watch a movie, dude?” Dave enquires, his voice back to its usual chilled-out monotone.

Karkat nods, grateful for something to take his mind off the pain in his frond nubs. Strider doesn’t have any decent rom-coms, but the one he selects isn’t too bad. With his back against Dave’s wall and the laptop playing at the end of the bed, he can almost forget about the pity for his brittle, damaged friend filling his chest. Until, that is, he feels Dave’s fingers twining nervously around his own.

 _What am I doing?_ Dave hasn’t got a clue why he feels the sudden need to grasp Karkat’s hand, but he does it anyway. The troll has always been a prickly ball of neuroses and rage, desperate to protect the softness at his centre with his sharp tongue. He’s never seen Karkat hold anyone, never heard him speak softer than an irritated grumble. Dave knows how much all of this touchy-feely bonding means to both of them, two boys who never let anyone close.

He feels a sick sense of pride at making contact with another person here, in the place he was taught to keep his heart closed. Bro taught him thoroughly, with cold actions and affectionless words. Striders don’t let anyone in. Striders are ruthless badasses. Well, he’s the last Strider now, and he’s going to do whatever the fuck he wants.

Karkat sits stock-still, eyes fixed on the movie but his attention focused completely on the warm hand holding his. He wants to speak, to look at Dave, but he’s afraid of shattering this moment to pieces. So the two sit, nervous but happy with their hands clasped, until the movie runs its course.


	4. Chapter 4

Dave wishes he’d chosen a different movie. The Matrix is one of his favourites, but based on Karkat’s frown it isn’t coming across too well. His hand is sweating up a storm, and he waits for Karkat to pull his own away. It’s kinda gross, but he isn’t letting go. He’s never held anyone’s hand for more than a few minutes, and Jade’s hadn’t been nearly as warm. Dave sneaks sideways glances from beneath his shades, studying the alien beside him.

Karkat is truly _alien_ , he thinks. His grey skin is leathery-smooth, his hair more like shaggy fur, and those teeth. Fuck, those teeth are like a piranha’s. A crescent of uniform points that hang slightly over his bottom lip when he smiles (rarely) or sneers (often). The guy has horns, and even though they’re the cutest fucking horns on any troll in existence, they’re still strange. Dave has no idea whether Karkat would feel it if he touched one. He has no idea why he’s thinking about touching one at all.

Even for a human, Dave is behaving strangely. Tension radiates from him once again; not the quiver of fear but the gentle hum of something else. When the human shifts slightly, leaning up against him, Karkat lets out an involuntary sigh. He expects the usual dose of Strider-snark (Swooning for me Vantas?), but Dave keeps his mouth shut for once.

Dave is busy freaking the fuck out. Why can’t he just chill out with Karkat, for fuck’s sake. He’s hung out with the troll for months, on and off. The first few had been a war of attrition. Bored out of his mind, Dave had taken to ruthlessly invading Karkat’s personal space, and he’d provided entertainment in spades. “Spades” being the operative word, unfortunately. He’d backed off when an uncomfortably smouldering look in had appeared in Karkat’s eyes and settled instead for being a constant, low-level irritant. Platonic sand in his alien underoos, not caliginous fingernails on a blackboard. This is something else, though. This is an unfamiliar heat running through his whole body.

He nearly jumps clean off the bed when he feels Karkat rest his head on his shoulder. The gesture is weirdly intimate, and this suddenly feels like date-night at the fifties drive-thru. Picturing Karkat in a party frock, hair done up with a ribbon and cheeks rouged pink, brings a smile to his face. His mind is full of warm hand and shaggy head and the feeling of a horn resting gently against his neck. There really doesn’t need to be anything else.

The movie is almost over, and when it finishes they’ll both have to move. They’ll have to address the closeness that they’ve slipped sideways into, the change in their relationship it no-doubt heralds. Karkat’s mind swings frantically from flushed to pale and back again, never landing anywhere hopeful. Dave doesn’t do quadrants, not least with another male. He’s staring down the headlights of another ruined friendship, powerless to move away. Dave is squirming internally; the desire to get closer to Karkat, to repay him for the affection he received earlier butts painfully against his deeply ingrained shame at needing comfort. It shouldn’t be this difficult to hug someone.

When credits start rolling up the screen, Dave reclaims his hand, and Karkat braces himself for the end of whatever this was. For Dave to go back to his aloof, coolkid self. Instead, Dave wraps shaking arms around him. Karkat presses his face into Dave’s neck, smelling the salt residue of his sweat mingling with the strange scent of human. He feels the other boy do the same.

The hug lasts a long time. When Dave finally lets go, the ghost of a smile flickers over his face. Karkat can’t take any more. That’s the last straw.

“Dave…” Fuck, he’s going to make himself say it and he doesn’t care if it makes everything awkward.

“I’m really sorry, but I fucking pity you so much right now.”

Karkat’s face has turned as red as Dave’s. Everything’s ruined, he ruined this and it’s never going to be fixed again. Strider is staring at him, frozen. He knew the kid was fragile, sharp and deadly like the obsidian of his planet but just as easy to shatter. And yet, he’s chosen to spill his stupid feelings all over the fucking place like a stupid wiggler. Cleanup on aisle Vantas.

Dave remembers enough from Karkat’s movies to know that “pity” doesn’t mean the same to trolls as it does to humans. He guesses from the fact that the troll isn’t trying to shooshpap him into the mattress right now that this isn’t pity of the platonic bro-mance kind. Fuck. Karkat probably wants to kiss him. He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

“Uh…Thanks?”

Not the smoothest line ever. Karkat visibly wilts with each passing second, and Dave hates how much this is hurting him. It hurts both of them. No-one has ever told Dave that they love him. It’s a simple thing that everyone else in the universe seems to take for granted, but he’s never once experienced it. He’s spent his whole life imagining how it must feel to be loved, to be cared about. Being “pitied” by an alien feels almost as good as the fantasy. The fact that it’s Karkat; this strange person who always makes his day better, who he’s watched sliding into depression with visceral pain in his chest and who he spent the last two hours holding hands with, suddenly makes sense.

He folds Karkat into his arms again.

“Dude, I’m pretty sure I pity you too, whatever that actually means. I fucking care about you, I know that.”

Karkat shudders with relief. Dave grins into his shoulder. When Dave loosens his grip and leans back, Karkat takes a deep breath and kisses him.

The kiss is soft, tentative. It’s not what Dave imagined for his first. His chief thought is not “No, no, no.” so much as “Not here, Not fucking here.” This place is an emotional haunted-house, a parade of reminders that he should not, under any circumstances, be kissing a boy. Determination to break free from all of that shit keeps him from pulling away. Its hold over him keeps him from kissing back.

 _He isn’t kissing back, so fucking end it_. Karkat fails to stifle a groan as he releases Dave, looking away quickly to hide his disappointment and shame. Dave almost panics again, Karkat is so fucking sad it’s going to kill him if he doesn’t fix it.

“Karkat, I’m sorry, man. I can’t do that here.”

The troll turns to face him, angry confusion usurping his misery.

“Look, I get it, OK? I fucked everything up. If we could just jam our appendages into our auricular sponge clots and forget it fucking happened, I’d be eternally grateful.”

Dave gently unpeels Karkat’s hands from where he’s using them to hide his face.

“Dude, listen for once. I said I can’t do that here. I didn’t say I can’t do it at all.”

Even though he hadn’t truly participated, the flood of heat in his core had been unmistakable.

“Even if it turns out we really shouldn’t be mackin’ on each other, I want to try that again. I liked it, OK? Just not…here.”

Karkat sees the shadow pass over Dave’s face, the flicker of pain run through him as he looks around the room. This old life is a shell that’s too small for him, one he’s been forced back into by this stupid dream-bubble. Maybe once they’ve left it behind, Dave will be able to leave his old life behind too.

Dave pulls Karkat into another hug, and they lie together on the bed, not speaking, until the bubble starts to shimmer and fade. It leaves them on one of the couches in the common area, so Dave carries Karkat to the alchemiter and dials up a wheeled ride for his bro. His bro that he might want to make out with, or might just want to hug more often. The person he "pities" most.

The troll resumes grumbling once he’s settled into the chair, the thing is uncomfortable and takes too much effort to move. Dave knows there are approximately three million pillows littering the floor of Karkat’s room, so he starts wheeling him toward it.

When they hit a particularly long stretch of echoing corridor, Dave speeds up. Laughing, he pushes a protesting Karkat faster and faster, ignoring his screams that they’re approaching a staircase. He doesn’t slow down. When they reach the edge, Karkat shrieks in earnest, picturing himself landing in a painful heap and cursing the idiot pushing him.

Dave laughs again, long and loud, as he grabs the arms of the wheelchair and lifts both of them into the air. He can’t hold Karkat-plus-wheelchair airborne for long, but it’s enough that they cut a graceful parabola before softly bumping down onto the metal at the foot of the stairs. Karkat turns in his seat, panting after his protracted session of yelling, and frowns as Dave cuts off a particularly creative punitive rant.

“I’m never going to let you fall, dude. Trust me.”

Dave leans down and kisses him, feeling Karkat's smile against his own.


End file.
